Chapter 679: The Forest Trap
The Ardennes Forest, straddling the border of Belgium and Luxembourg—also known as the Ardennes Highlands—wasn't particularly elevated in terms of altitude. Its highest peak, Botrange, stood at just 694 meters. But what it lacked in elevation, it more than made up for in dense forests, complex terrain, and swampy ground. For generations, locals had considered it a wild, untamable region—unsuitable for development and full of hidden dangers.
Major General Fred led his retreating force toward entrance number 3, one of the few winding trails into the mountains. At the forest's edge, his troops halted. The road ended in a narrow, muddy path barely wide enough for two or three men walking abreast.
Originally carved out for mining, the trail was scarred with grooves from hand-pushed ore carts, and its surface was a patchwork of jagged stones and hastily filled potholes. The Ardennes were rich in coal and iron, and each time a new seam was discovered, a rough road was cut to it. But many of these paths were later abandoned when more profitable mining zones—like the Cazier Forest Coal Mine—emerged.
Fred raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon. All he saw was bleak wilderness—nothing moved.
Moments later, several German scouts emerged from the forest, hunched over and moving cautiously. They rushed up to Fred without saluting, their lieutenant speaking quickly:
"General, Major Fiender ordered us to escort you. He's leading a forward sweep to secure the trail."
Just as he spoke, several gunshots echoed through the trees—sharp cracks that startled the already nervous German troops. Fred's guards immediately raised their rifles, shielding him instinctively.
But Fred waved them off, unshaken.
Years of battlefield experience told him those gunshots were kilometers away, their echo amplified by the mountainous terrain. There was no imminent danger here—at least, not yet.
The scout lieutenant glanced nervously into the woods, then turned back to Fred. "The major believes there are still some French stragglers in the area. His unit is clearing them out."
Fred said nothing.
Instead, he pondered the deeper implications: if German scouts had managed to penetrate several kilometers into the forest without resistance, could it mean this path was truly safe?
After another brief pause, he made his decision. Raising a hand, he gave the order to advance.
Thousands of German troops began filing down the narrow path into the forest.
Behind them, truck drivers smashed the fuel tanks of abandoned vehicles, dousing them with gasoline. One by one, fires were lit. Within minutes, the retreat route was aflame with thick black smoke, punctuated by the occasional explosion as the flames reached stored munitions or fuel barrels.
Deep within the forest, a chilling wind howled between the trees.
Recent snowmelt had turned the trails into a morass of sticky, treacherous mud. German soldiers struggled to maintain footing. Some crawled up slopes using both hands and feet, only to slip and fall backward. Descents were just as dangerous—without vines or branches to grab, one could easily tumble into a ravine or crash face-first into a boulder.
Above them, branches formed a dense canopy, blotting out the sun. Only scattered beams of weak light filtered through, casting fragmented patterns on the forest floor. The patterns shifted constantly as trees swayed—like a swirling kaleidoscope that disoriented more than it illuminated.
After more than an hour of grueling movement, the soldiers emerged into a clearing.
The terrain was flatter here, and a small stream trickled peacefully through it. Sunlight finally bathed the area in warmth. Exhausted, mud-soaked soldiers shouted with relief, many rushing out of the forest into the light like prisoners fleeing a dungeon.
"General," Enzo said cautiously, "the men need rest. They're exhausted. I think we're safe now."
Fred nodded, and for the first time in hours, allowed himself a moment of ease. He issued the rest order and sat down on a sun-warmed rock. He truly believed they had escaped danger. Tanks couldn't follow them here, and the forest behind would slow any French pursuit.
What Fred did not see were the dozens of dark rifle barrels emerging silently from the surrounding trees.
Lieutenant Colonel Tassini's 192nd Infantry Regiment was already in position. And they had allowed the German scouts to pass deliberately.
Rather than ambushing them too early, the French had staged a clever deception: a few "stragglers" had fired at the German scouts, drawing them deeper in. The Germans, chasing what they thought were a few panicked French troops, were blind to the massive trap being sprung around them.
The Germans, now relaxing, had no idea they were standing in the jaws of death.
Some leaned against trees, others fetched water from the stream. A few sat down to scrape mud from their boots with rocks, sighing in exhaustion.
Fred, sitting contentedly on his rock, accepted a canteen from his orderly. He tipped it back and took a long drink.
Crack!
Fred jerked backward and collapsed—dead before he hit the ground. The bullet had pierced the canteen, then entered his face. His head exploded in a mess of blood and bone, the water gushing from the shredded canteen mingling with the gore.
The orderly stood frozen, still holding a piece of bread in his hand.
For a heartbeat, the forest was silent. Then hell opened up.
Machine guns thundered from the trees. Bullets swept the clearing in crisscrossing arcs, cutting down dozens of German soldiers before they could react. Blood spattered across rocks and grass, bodies tumbled into the stream, which ran red within seconds.
Those who could, dove for cover—but there was none. The clearing offered no protection. Panic erupted. The Germans had walked right into a perfectly staged ambush.
Some frantically returned fire, but their bullets only struck tree trunks.
Enzo, eyes wide with horror, seized command. He scrambled behind a boulder and raised his pistol, shouting over the gunfire:
"Follow me! Into the woods! It's our only chance!"
The trees offered the only possible cover—if they could make it.
Enzo led the charge. Dozens followed. But the moment they broke toward the tree line, a new volley of machine-gun fire raked across them. Hidden French gunners, entrenched with interlocking fields of fire, cut down the attackers in waves.
Grenades followed. Explosions shattered the air.
Enzo hit the ground, stunned. Through the smoke, he saw barbed wire glinting just beyond the trees.
He understood instantly.
This wasn't a hasty ambush. It was a fully prepared kill zone. The clearing was the bait. The forest edge was fortified. The Germans had been lured step by step, only to be annihilated when they were too deep to retreat.
Enzo gritted his teeth and whispered bitterly to himself:
"It's a trap. We're finished."
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